


you give me fever

by hamiltrashed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fever, Fever Dreams, Half these tags could have a (maybe) after them lmao, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot Twists, Sexual Fantasy, Sick Character, Wet Dream, ambiguous ending, you'll understand when you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9135736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: Thomas is sick with a fever, and in a desperate moment, he dreams of Hamilton.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One last fic of the year. This one's a little off the wall, but I wrote it in like 10 hours and it was kind of a fun one for me. Be back next year with more fic; got some cool stuff in the works! Love all of you Hamiltrashy people. <3 Thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> Thanks for betaing, Michelle_A_Emerlind!

Thomas can’t remember sickness ever being like this. He knows he was sick a time or two as a child, and migraines have plagued him all his life, but this -- this is different. He can’t recall ever feeling like both a Virginia summer and a New York winter before, not at the same time. The blankets come off and on, on and off in short increments, and Thomas’s bed is drifting further out to sea on roiling waves each time he turns his foggy head. The dizziness says he’s somewhere up by the coast of Maine now, probably, too far from home. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back. No one can hear his weak moans from here. He wishes there were someone to take care of him.

He definitely feels like he’s going to die, which is perhaps a bit dramatic, but he’s sweating so much that limp curls are sticking to his forehead, shivering so hard that he thinks he can hear his bones rattling together. For a moment, right at the beginning, he’d felt regret for every time he’d ever told Madison to suck it up, or that the sniffles weren’t going to kill him. But then he’d remembered that Madison had given him this wretched illness, turning him into a feverish mess on his bed, and he hadn’t felt quite so sorry anymore.

A breeze from off the water sweeps over him now, a chill bowing his spine in a way that aches, as if icicles are being driven beneath his skin. Thomas rolls slowly onto his belly, pulling the blanket with him so it wraps him up, and tries to fight the cold. This blanket is fleece, softer and warmer than all the rest, and in a few minutes, when the roasting-in-hell feeling returns, he thinks he’ll really miss the gentle caress of it.

It’s a long, quiet minute wrapped naked in the blanket before Thomas, in an oddly shameful moment of comprehension, realises he can feel that caress everywhere. _Not now_ , he tells himself, because he’s not in the mood, because who could be in this state? But his body won’t listen. It hasn’t been listening to him for two days, and why should it start now? His cock stiffens beneath him, trapped between his belly and the mattress, the heavy fleece of the blanket feeling suddenly less like a warm hug, and more like a deliberate tease. His hips give a weak, shaky thrust of their own accord, and this time, he moans for a different reason. He thinks about resisting the sudden, intense urge he’s feeling, but even if he really wanted to resist, he doesn’t have the enthusiasm to try.

“Oh, now, come on, that’s just lazy,” says someone behind him, and Jefferson would crane his neck around to see, but he’s afraid of the ocean capsizing his bed.

“What?” he gasps, and his voice comes out thin, lethargic. Alexander Hamilton comes around to one side of the bed, walking steady and even on the water, like some sort of messianic figure. His long hair is dragging across his shoulders; it only deifies him further in Thomas’s mind.

“Laaaazy,” Alexander says slowly, drawling out a lengthy ‘a’ sound. “Bet it feels good though. I haven’t done that since I was about 14. Does it feel good, Thomas?”

Thomas’s cock twitches. His hips rock forward. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispers, and his eyes seek Alexander’s. “Are you really here?”

“I called, you know. Madison was busy, asked me to bring you soup. But you know what I think of you. Where else would I be?” Thomas feels as though there’s something in his response that he should question, but he just doesn’t have the energy. Alexander, who is blurry around the edges like he’s been badly photoshopped into this scene, sits down on the bed beside him and lays the back of his hand across Thomas’s forehead. “Ooh boy,” he adds with a worried little cluck of his tongue that doesn’t at all match the mischievous grin on his face. “You’re incredibly hot.”

 _Shut up_ , Thomas tries to say, but he can’t get it out. Instead, he blurts out, “You’ll get sick.”

Alexander shrugs. “I’ve been sick before. Never could seem to die.”

It’s such an odd thing to say, but Thomas is too tired to question that, either. Or too worked up to give it that much thought. His hips rock against the bed again. He whines against the sheets. “If I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, intending to provide some sort of response to Alexander’s accusation of laziness, “I wanna get off one last time.”

Alexander tosses his head back with a throaty laugh. “I admire your priorities. And that’s something I never thought I’d say.”

“Help me?” Thomas says, his abrupt desire for Alexander’s hands on him ringing clear like a bell through the haze. Anybody’s hands would do just now, but Alexander is here, seemingly willing, and it wouldn’t suit Thomas anymore to deny that he’s thought before of what Alexander’s hands could do. He’s ready to let someone else captain the ship from here on out. Maybe Alexander will get them home. Thomas closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Alexander’s face is an inch from his.

“Sure. I’ll help you. You want me to touch you?”

Thomas still isn’t sure if this is real or if it’s a fever dream, a hallucination brought on by his lack of sleep and being so deep in the hold of this sickness, but he doesn’t care. Alexander’s mouth touches the edge of his. A hint of a kiss. Thomas tells him, “Yes.”

“Aren’t you warm all bundled up like that?” Alexander suggests, as if he’s tuned into the schedule on which Thomas’s body is currently operating. On cue, Thomas is suddenly sweltering, desperate to get the blanket off of him. Alexander helps him unwrap, and then Thomas is on his back, naked, legs spread wide in invitation.

“Please.” Only a stupid man doesn’t swallow his pride when in need of help. Thomas swallows his and begs.

Alexander’s thumb finds that sweet spot just beneath the head of his cock almost immediately, and Thomas’s head tips back into his mound of pillows. The bed rocks and sways. Thomas can hear a seagull, or maybe that sound is his own whimpering. He grips the sheets and wills the water to remain calm. He doesn’t remember much about boats or sailing and he doesn’t want to die.

Alexander doesn’t seem to mind how the bed moves beneath them; maybe he’s done this before. He’s certainly got the mouth of a sailor. “Fucking beautiful,” he says to Thomas. “When you’re better, maybe I’ll let you fuck me with this pretty cock.”

Thomas coughs, choking on nothing, hips thrusting up into Alexander’s hand, an eager response to this suggestion. “Faster,” he mutters. Alexander obeys.

Thomas feels like he’s in pieces, only strung together like an articulated skeleton with what little energy he has left. There’s his heavy head trying to come away from his body and his weak arms that he can barely move and a single point of pleasure between his quivering thighs. And Lord knows his hazy thoughts should not be quite so filthy when he’s this goddamn ill, but he can’t help himself.

“You’re cold now, aren’t you?” asks Alexander out of nowhere. “It’s cold.”  
  
Thomas shivers. He’s right. It’s frigid. He blinks, and somehow Alexander’s shirt is gone and he’s climbing atop Thomas to stop his shaking. He’s warm, intensely warm, and Thomas is sweating again within moments. “Does it snow on the ocean?” he asks, and Alexander laughs.

“I don’t know,” he replies, looking up. “Does it?” Thomas looks up too and there’s only open sky, grey-white, as if it could snow any second. But it doesn’t. The bed hits a small but dizzying wave, and Alexander pretends he’s jostled by it, letting himself tip forward like a falling tree, until his skin is on Thomas’s skin. He grins a wicked grin, rolls his hips into Thomas’s.

The denim of his jeans is rough against Thomas’s cock, but it feels good, different, and he knows he could come like this, rutting against the inside of Alexander’s clothed thigh. _That’s pathetic_ , he tells himself, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Alexander doesn’t seem keen for him to, anyway. He drags his hands along Thomas’s chest, down along his abdomen and Thomas laughs at the sensation, laughs for the first time in days.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says absently, and the words are thick on his tongue. Alexander moves away for a moment, leaving Thomas to thrust into empty air. Leaving him to plea. “You’re gorgeous, please don’t go.”

Thomas’s head swims, the ocean rocks him, and out here with no sun, Alexander’s smile is the next best thing. “Told you,” Alexander replies. “Where else would I be?”

“Anywhere else but with me,” Thomas says. “Madison sent you. You said so.”

“Sure,” Alexander says. “But a friend in need…”

His hand curls back around Thomas, and his mouth finds Thomas’s hips, his thighs, kissing and licking. Thomas sighs, body shuddering. He wants to move his legs and wrap them around Alexander, but he can’t get them to work. “We’re friends?” he asks instead. Perhaps his delirium is getting the better of him. He can’t just have heard Alexander Hamilton refer to him as a friend.

But Alexander nods. “Yes. Now hush. Just enjoy it.”

Thomas hushes. He enjoys it.

Alexander’s thumb brushes across the head of his cock, just the way he likes, teases out droplets of precome until Thomas is moaning again. It isn’t going to be long now. Something inside him coils up like a spring, all tight and tense, and Alexander’s hand moves faster again. Thomas catches his eyes, deep brown and earnest, before his hair falls into his face, hiding the look of what Thomas thinks might be _want_.

Or maybe that’s the fever. He’s too hot again, miserably so, but there’s no stopping Alexander now. He turns his eyes to the sky, wishes it would snow out here on the water, wishes the water would lap up along the sides of the bed, embrace him in its salty arms. And then it does. Without warning, there’s a hurricane inside of him, or on him, he can’t tell. He’s sinking, drowning, gasping Alexander’s name, hands gripping the sheets as if that will save him.

But then he realises he doesn’t want to be saved. The hurricane feels good, perfect, and he wants to reach for Alexander, wants him to feel it too. But Alexander simply smiles, shakes his head, moves away from the bed and back onto the water. He doesn’t drown. He blows a kiss. He disappears.

“Thanks,” Thomas calls after him, breathless. The hurricane eases (or perhaps he’s in the eye) but the waves still roll, threatening to send him further and further away. Thomas closes his eyes. He decides to go where the water takes him.

#

Thomas wakes in the early evening, his fever broken. His body feels weak, exhausted, but his head feels steady, his mind no longer conjuring up strange images of the sea. The walls of his bedroom, ocean blue, made it easy when he was in the grasp of the fever, but he knows now where he is.

Thomas sits up, pushes aside the blankets, grimaces when he finds what he suspected he would. He doesn’t want to push himself into doing too much today, but he’s at least going to change the sheets, and never tell a single soul that he apparently has wet dreams when he’s sick. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry, and he remembers vaguely the name he’d been calling out in his dream or hallucination or whatever the hell that had been.

God, that’s embarrassing. Alexander Hamilton with his hands on him, as if that would ever happen. No, it’s obvious now what all that was. His own hands on himself in some bizarre moment of desperation, all those words between them manifestations of his own thoughts and feelings. His brain had merely provided him with the first person it could summon up to help him out, though he can’t imagine why that would be Alexander.

He reaches for his phone, finds half a dozen missed calls, and thumbs through them. Washington, Madison, Madison, Madison, Lafayette… Hamilton. _I called, you know_ , the fever dream Hamilton had said. Thomas sighs, puts the phone quickly back on his bedside table. He shakes his head. There’s no more dizziness, and with a clear mind, it makes sense to him that he’d seen Hamilton’s call in the midst of his sickness, and he came to mind because of that. A simple coincidence. That’s all. Nothing more.

Water is what he needs now. Not sea water, but something to drink, something to fill the hollow spot in his stomach. Thomas slips from his bed, grateful that it’s stationary, grateful that his brain no longer seems to be floating aimlessly around in his skull. He walks naked to the kitchen, stumbling only a little, his body far too frail for his liking. But the worst of it is over now. The fever is behind him.

Thomas pulls open the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water. His hand falters, his eyes go wide, his breath catches in his throat. _Madison said he was busy, asked me to bring you soup._

And there _is_ soup, right there on the shelf. The container even bears initials, written in small, neat hand on the lid: A.H.  
  
Thomas’s body goes warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the lyrics to Fever, which has a million versions by so many different people. I listened to the Michael Bublé version a lot while writing this though. (:


End file.
